On The Boat From Inverness
by PollyVictorian
Summary: While on a boat from Inverness to Urquhart Castle, my thoughts linked with those of a young man who may have travelled the same route in the 19th century. For me, it was an afternoon excursion but for Murdoch Lancer, it would have been only the first stage of a far longer journey.


"Is that the last lock?" Murdoch Lancer asked a deckhand as the gates opened and the paddle steamer began moving into Loch Dochfour.

"Aye, for a while, until we get to Fort Augustus. I suppose you were bored, getting through them?" The old sailor gave the younger man a knowing look.

"Well, it was tedious, just sitting there waiting while each lock filled up, and not getting anywhere," said Murdoch defensively.

"If you were going by sea, you'd be waiting a lot longer for the tide, before your ship could even weigh anchor. And then you'd be in for a rough passage, and no telling how long the voyage would last; all depending on the wind. When I first went to sea, that was the only way to get to the Atlantic, around the north coast. Nowadays, you eat your breakfast in Inverness this morning and you'll be getting your dinner in Glasgow tomorrow, with smooth water all the way. You young ones don't know how lucky you are." The seaman shook his head disapprovingly but there was a twinkle in his eye, and Murdoch responded with a laugh at himself.

"You're right. I should remember how it used to be – I've heard stories of my great-uncle and others walking from the Black Isle to Glasgow."

"That's how ordinary folk travelled, right enough. But cheer up, lad, once past Bona Lighthouse we'll put on some steam and move along fast enough even for a modern youngster like yourself." With a grin and a nod the old salt headed aft, leaving Murdoch leaning against the rail as close to the bow as he could get, peering ahead. It was slow going still; although the boat was out of the canal proper, this first small loch was only a little wider and busy with vessels of all sorts, from fishing smacks being towed along the shore by horses, their sails of no use until they reached the open water of Loch Ness, to the steamers plying the length of the Caledonian Canal, laden with as many passengers and as much cargo as they could hold. Murdoch felt the impatience rising within him once more as the boat seemed to just inch along. He wanted to be moving, really moving, heading into the adventure he had chosen, on the new path he'd decided to take.

The steamer was passing a tiny lighthouse to starboard. Was that the lighthouse the deckhand had mentioned? Yes, it must be – the banks widened and Murdoch felt the throb of the engine as the boat picked up speed and almost leaped forward, heading up Loch Ness. The old seaman had been right; this was speed enough to satisfy the most impatient of hearts. The winter day was bitingly cold and the wind was chill but he stayed on deck. The sting of the wind and the sight of the waves foaming on the dark surface of the loch made him feel a part of the moving forward that was a moving into the future, although the mist hung low over the pine forest that covered the hills of the loch shore and far ahead, where two points of land reached inward, a thick fog hid the further end of the loch.

The awareness of the boat's speed brought to his mind once again the tales of his grandfather's brother's journey along the Great Glen on foot. It was almost seventy years ago that Diarmid Lancer had left a Highland district still impoverished after the '45 to look for work in the Lowlands. He'd finally enlisted in the 83rd Regiment of Foot, the Royal Glasgow Volunteers, and had crossed the Atlantic to fight in the American war. A journey like his own in some ways, thought Murdoch, but much different in others. For one thing, he would have to pay his own fare, and he only hoped there would be enough money left in his purse to help make a start in America. King George had paid Great-Uncle Diarmid's fare to America and back. But Murdoch wouldn't be coming back.

The thought hit him. He wouldn't be coming back. America was another country – another life. He might never see Scotland again. A chill gripped his heart, then he rallied. He was being foolish. It was right, what the old sailor had been saying: travel was fast and easy, compared to how it was, and getting faster all the time. If he did well in America, he could come back some time. If he did well ... if he met with no misfortune ... if he'd made the right decision in the first place...  
Murdoch pulled up his thoughts. There were too many ifs; it was a waste of mental strength to dwell on them. The only way to find out what the future held was to march into it, head held high.

As the boat steamed past the ruins of Urquhart Castle, Murdoch allowed himself to look back once; just once, then he turned his gaze forward again.

Ahead, where the loch narrowed between the two points of land, the mist was thinning a little and he could see the faint outline of the hills beyond.


End file.
